Made of Stone
by Lawson227
Summary: One-shot inspired by the final scene between Don and Liz at the conclusion of "The Stewmaker." Their dynamic this episode—who knew? And who knows what the devious writers will do, so until they dash our hopes, this little one-shot.


**Made of Stone**

**AN: **Little one-shot inspired by the end scene of "The Stewmaker." I wanted to get this up before this week's episode aired (since who knows what the devious writers might do to toy with us) but I figured better late than never. Fic title cribbed from the song name played over the scene.

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, goes without saying I own nothing. At all. Carry on.

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be the one she leaned on. The one who watched her fall apart. Who held her as she fell apart.

Liz hated Donald Ressler. Maybe more importantly, he hated her. But there he'd been—first one in through the door—the first to turn his attention to her, admittedly, at Red's urging.

As was proper.

That is, the fact that his initial focus had been on Kornish and to only a slightly lesser degree, on Red. Ressler was a good agent—a by the book agent. His focus should have been on the perps. She knew the risks—moreover, she was expected to take care of herself. However, the moment Red, hands on his head, had indicated in that deceptively mild voice that she needed medical attention, that laser-sharp focus which her colleague possessed in spades had immediately shifted to her and only to her. She'd watched, as if through a fog, as he rapidly holstered his weapon and touched her face.

Through that fog, she'd managed to register how gentle his touch had been. How soft his voice as he reassured her it was over. Murmured that she was safe now. Softer still—so soft that she almost thought she imagined it—that he was there.

He shouldn't have been that gentle. By all rights, he should have been brisk—perfunctory. Cold, even.

That was the Donald Ressler she knew.

Instead he'd been gentle. And warm. And so very careful, as he'd draped the rough gray blanket around her shoulders and helped her stand on rubbery legs before leading her from that hellhole. She'd considered protesting that she could walk on her own. Had desperately wanted to prove she was a worthy agent. That she was as strong and tough as she already knew him to be.

But she hadn't had the energy. Or the desire. She was still so very stunned by what had transpired in that remote cabin—what Kornish had told her.

What Red had done.

She could still hear the steady emotionless drone of Red's voice, underscored with a sickeningly cold menace that made her skin crawl; heard her own voice quietly pleading for… what? Not absolution. What Stanley Kornish had done could not be forgiven. No, her plea had been for mercy. For faith in the system. She could still hear the slight note of consideration that had crept into Red's voice as he replied to her, an instant before the coldness had overtaken it once more, followed an instant later by a heavy splash and oddly cold sizzle of the acid bath meeting bare skin and the smell of flesh and muscle and bone dissolving into a morass of organic and chemical goo.

Kornish's life obliterated as if he'd never existed.

Obliterated in the same way he would have obliterated her.

As if she'd never existed.

It was then her steps had faltered, still-shaky legs giving way. She barely felt the tightening of Don's hands at her elbows, but she felt his warmth, turned instinctively into it.

He was so warm—so much warmer than she would have ever imagined and the terror had left her so very cold—trembling and hanging onto the solid warmth of this man who shouldn't have been the one she turned to.

In that moment, however, she couldn't imagine turning to anyone else.

Didn't want to turn to anyone else.

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Don resented Elizabeth Keen. He didn't trust her. Especially not after that stealthy ballistics report routine she tried to pull.

He _could_ admit—after several cases together—to admiring her. Grudgingly.

He was beginning to believe that maybe… just maybe… she didn't have any idea why the hell Red had targeted her.

It didn't mean he agreed with her being brought on to the team. And he absolutely did not agree with leapfrogging her over several other more qualified profilers to be handed what amounted to a plum assignment, but he was a company man. He understood his place in the chain of command and that it wasn't his decision to make.

He understood it.

But he didn't have to like it.

And he sure as hell didn't have to like her.

Which was why he didn't understand the feeling that had shot through him when they realized Liz was missing. Why he'd gotten up in Red's face and insisted he was going along when he confronted Lorca.

He didn't understand the sense of satisfaction he'd gotten at the faint approval clearly evident in Red's glance even as the son of a bitch had disavowed himself of any responsibility for Don's safety.

Don didn't give a crap about his own safety.

He just wanted to get Liz—a fellow agent—back, safe and sound.

That was his primary objective. For better or worse, she was a member of his team and he would not lose her. Not on his watch.

And not to a sick bastard like The Stewmaker.

Stanley Kornish, innocuous dentist on the surface, psychopathic killer for hire whose methods had made even Don, with all he'd already seen in his career, more than a little nauseous.

Realizing he'd taken Liz? Understanding that same fate awaited her if they didn't get to her in time?

He hadn't been sick like that since his first dead body as a green rookie.

And he still didn't understand why.

Not even when he burst through the door, the stench of dissolving flesh hitting him like a sledgehammer, his field of vision narrowed so that Red was the only thing he saw, had he understood.

In the rushed frantic moments after, there hadn't been time to understand. He'd barely had time to holster his weapon before he was touching her, reassuring himself she was there and whole, reassuring her that it was over—that she was safe.

That he was there.

That last had slipped out, unbidden and barely heard, even by himself.

He was reasonably certain she hadn't heard it. He hoped she hadn't.

But it wasn't until she'd collapsed, the day's horrors overwhelming her, that he finally understood.

She'd turned into _him_—had reached for _him_—had held onto _him_…

Liz had clung to him as they stood on that dirt path, an island unto themselves as people ebbed and flowed around them like river waters and whispered his name, trusting that he would hold her and put her back together.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He wasn't supposed to have fallen in love with her.


End file.
